


The tale was all a lie

by Ark



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1830s! Les Amis de l'ABC, Angst, Canon Era, Canon character deaths, Established Relationship, Fixes, Hidden Relationship, History, Homophobia, Lies, M/M, Sex, Sorry Victor Hugo not sorry, The South of France, Violence, revolutions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Can you not see it clear, Enjolras? It would be like a play. We shall have scenes between us that would make Aeschylus weep, and thus impress that we are far from friends. You will show yourself to be strong, in shouting me down; and I will play the devil's advocate to your ideals, to show how strong you are."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barricadeur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barricadeur/gifts).



> For my dearest Courfeyrac, [barricadeur](http://barricadeur.tumblr.com), for too many reasons, and for inspiring the end. Thanks to the so awesome [ soemily](http://soemily.tumblr.com) for reading first. As always love to my [tumblr](et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com) and ao3 babes for encouragement. Title, epigram and general life philosophy taken from A.E. Housman's "[Terence, this is stupid stuff](http://www.bartleby.com/123/62.html)."

_Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme_  
 _Your friends to death before their time_

 

Late into the night, with the sun starting to show on the windowsill, Enjolras' door opens and Grantaire slips inside. Quiet as his shadow, Grantaire takes off his clothes, then with feet only halfway unsteady comes towards the bed and eases onto it.

Enjolras has been awake since the first stair-creak; he observes through lidded eyes, reaching out to palm the curve of Grantaire's hip once settled.

“Apologies,” murmurs Grantaire, rolling at once against him, as soon as he is touched. “I thought I managed to steal in silently enough.”

“You are many things, but you make for an unlikely cat burglar, Grantaire.” Enjolras speaks lightly and grips him fiercely. He pulls Grantaire into the circle of his arms, tangles his fingers in the tangle of Grantaire's hair. “I wanted to be awake for your return. I have been awakening on the hour, and glaring at the candle.” 

Grantaire smells of sweat and musk and revelry, and the bow of his mouth tastes like wine. 

Enjolras samples several vintages, then releases Grantaire and falls back. “The night was a success, I see.”

Grantaire keeps their bodies pressed close as he props up on an elbow. “If you mean, my star, have I taken drink in precisely twelve cafes across the length and breadth of Paris, until the soles of my shoes were gone and I strolled in stocking feet, I can confirm it; if you ask what I have learned, whom I spoke to, what I drew, where I drank, what I heard for and against your cause, the report will be considerably longer. In the morning I shall scribe it all in a scroll for you, on ancient vellum, using scarlet ink, and add my little pictures. You will find that today I have sketched many streets for maps and strategy, and done some small likenesses of men you should want to meet, and men you must never meet.”

Enjolras is always heated by the depth of Grantaire's devotion, and the depth of his cunning. When Grantaire manages an operation with such finesse and fine result, Enjolras is quick to show his admiration. He puts his hand to Grantaire's cheek, runs his thumb along the edge of Grantaire's cheekbone.

“Your courage in this is extraordinary,” Enjolras says. “You bring me more than I should ask of any man.”

Grantaire’s lips turn up, pleased; he cants his hips, presses more firmly to Enjolras. “Who should have thought that I would make a better spy than a painter? Well, my painting master might have said so. Spying seems to come more naturally than nature pictures ever did. It is easy enough to drink with many men and get them talking about their political ideas; there is nothing easier in the world. Then, to prod and examine a person's character, one must only ask him about himself; people love to talk about themselves, did you know, Enjolras? And they will tell you every last thing, should you query with a smile on your face.” Grantaire is still smiling. “Also, I am singularly motivated. What I do is to preserve you, and to benefit your campaign; I will leave no cobblestone or wine-jug unturned on such a holy quest.”

Enjolras' hand goes from cheek to shoulder, trails the smooth planes of Grantaire's chest, travels considerably lower. “I await your report with baited breath,” he says, ducking his head, the better to observe the instant effect he has on Grantaire, their mutual effect, when flesh is on flesh. Grantaire's is the breath caught. “I beg a summary, only.”

“You know I can refuse you nothing,” groans Grantaire, trying hard to gather scattered thoughts. 

With his hand working Grantaire thus, Enjolras knows Grantaire would do anything, swear any oath, give over any boon; he is entirely Enjolras', body, mind and soul, and Enjolras would be frightened of the intensity if he did not share and return and abide by it. From the first his relationship with Grantaire has been a thing of love and lightning; they met in class and sparred and sparked and came together and have not looked back.

When Enjolras sought to lay the groundwork for what would become les Amis de l'ABC, it was Grantaire who suggested the subterfuge. If they played at seeming strangers, even foils, the rewards far outweighed the hidden truth. 

One night in bed he spelled it out for Enjolras:

“Only think of it more clearly before you refuse again,” Grantaire said, tracing distant sights on the bed-linen with a fingertip. “I will join up and be congenial with the other fellows, but if they do not think I am in with you at all, imagine all that I will hear and be party to that you will not. I can go from club to club; I will be welcomed everywhere; I know how to talk to anyone. I know every cafe and restaurant in Paris and what to eat and drink at each; I can drink a man under the table, and I could be good at playing very drunk. Can you not see it clear, Enjolras? It would be like a play. We shall have scenes between us that would make Aeschylus weep, and thus impress that we are far from friends. You will show yourself to be strong, in shouting me down; and I will play the devil's advocate to your ideals, to show how strong you are.”

Enjolras was hardly breathing, trying to wrap his mind around an idea three parts mad and also maddeningly brilliant. Grantaire, embedded as the opposition, could prove enormously valuable to the future of the club and its operations. An unlikely emissary who could go amongst the varied crowds of youth and workmen in Paris, and speak Enjolras' plans with native fluency to each. With a reputation as an indulgent libertine, Grantaire's presence would not draw suspicion, and he would plead intoxication if caught saying anything too dangerous.

It took a long while -- half a night -- for Enjolras to agree. Once he did he saw the potentials unfolding like petals and they stayed up far in the next day making plans for the scheme and practicing.

“No, with more venom,” Grantaire said, his lips to Enjolras' ear, “you must disdain and repulse me, repudiate me, call me out for a disgrace and threaten to cast me forth. Behavior such as I intend to perform should not be tolerated in your revolution. Make an example of me.”

Grantaire's eyes, alight. The lightning that always crackled when they were together. “I think for my part I should act as in love with you as I am; for who would ever guess the truth of our nature, if I were seen to adore you openly, and you to seem indifferent, even cruel?”

And that had been even harder to agree on; it was risky, but once more, damn him, Grantaire was right. In the early states of plotting the club's inception, Enjolras worried that their relationship could be uncovered and used against them by a number of parties. He had often voiced concern that he would find it quite impossible to be impartial to Grantaire, that he would make a mistake and let slip some sign of the intimate affection that was between them, or that Grantaire would.

If Grantaire was free to proclaim adoration of Enjolras, and Enjolras appeared to pay him no heed, they had a chance to stay safe. Enjolras thought it might be easier to pretend to ignore Grantaire entirely than to pretend to be merely his friend.

 _Not that it will be easy to pull off,_ Enjolras cautioned, when he cautiously agreed to it all; but the promise and temptation of the plan was enough.

It has not been easy.

Far now from the confidence of those younger days, in the frenzied, uncertain, unstable present. Everything and more that they have planned has taken root and sprouted and spread.

Paris is a keg of powder and les Amis de l'ABC are the lit candle held up by the people in the dark.

In the dark Enjolras holds Grantaire as Grantaire gives his summary report of the young men agitating in cafes and clubs across the city. Talk has turned decisive and in Enjolras' favor, as has been the growing trend all summer. 

For many months Grantaire, grown too used to his cynic's role, has argued with Enjolras over the logic of preparing for outright war, but lately he is silent on the opinion -- hesitates only a little as he describes how the boys claim they will take to arms if called.

Enjolras listens to him with deep satisfaction and growing dread. They are coming to it at long last, it is spinning close entirely too quickly: he knows they they are nearly at the end and the new beginning.

He has no illusions that he will survive it now that he can see the shape of things. He is quite certain he will be made a martyr. From this he feels excitement and vague regret. He cannot bear to consider Grantaire's result. Grantaire speaks of neither. This is the only part they do not discuss.

Though it was his proposal, the play-act of their sour relations has proved more difficult for Grantaire. His heart is soft where Enjolras' is resolved, and the day-in, day-out seeming indifference in public, the harsh words against him, falsified but nonetheless spoken by Enjolras' mouth in Enjolras' voice, have worn on Grantaire.

Difficult, after all, to stand ever on the outside looking in, never quite accepted or valued. Grantaire's speeches are faltering as of late, losing heart and steam. Often he puts his head down on the table, and loudly snores, and thus says silently to Enjolras: _I cannot act it any more; I will break apart._

The drinking Grantaire must undertake on such days and when he goes out in Enjolras' service has been considerable; he can only turn down so many, or sip so slowly, as to avoid detection, though his watered wine-bottle helps some. There are also intoxicants from the Far East, pressed on him in bistro bathrooms or passed around the dinner-table, with sharp eyes watching until he partakes.

Some evenings Grantaire plays his part too well, stumbles back to their rooms without sound recollection of his whereabouts – the character Grantaire adopted is not a total stranger, after all. He is Grantaire amplified and emboldened to disrupt.

When Grantaire makes his own speeches to the club the topics he declaims are never lies, only made much rowdier and in full caricature. He is at heart a cynic; that act at least comes naturally enough, and he enjoys nothing so much as poking holes in commonly-held assumptions. He believes in the capacity for social change and in Enjolras enough to maintain the charade. Often Grantaire seems to enjoy the performance. But when Enjolras must castigate him, it is terrible to watch the blue light dim in Grantaire's eyes, watch him sputter and go out like a snuffed torch.

Only when they are reunited in the stolen hours between sleep and waking can it be anything like the old normal. Grantaire will detach from some party, and make his way back and into bed; they couple with heated abandon, then stay up through three candles talking of what has passed, and on strategies going forth, and sometimes, blissfully, of nonsense. 

There are nights when Enjolras will relent and let Grantaire tell him an old story like he used to, with his nimble fingers in Enjolras' hair and his fingertips driving the headache from Enjolras' brow. Grantaire insistent on rest and refusing to hear of any other thing.

Tonight it is Enjolras who insists on distracting Grantaire from his exhaustion. Despite the trials Grantaire has kept steady and done crucial work, with none the wiser. Even Combeferre and Courfeyrac remain unaware of the deception, though sometimes Enjolras thinks he spies Combeferre looking thoughtfully at them. 

The ruse has worked well enough.

“You have done so well,” Enjolras murmurs, with Grantaire's summary of the cafe-tour at a close; his hand has worked Grantaire throughout, and the final bits are split by sighs and sharp intakes of breath from Grantaire. Grantaire's cock is flush and lovely in Enjolras' fist. “To the victor the spoils.”

Enjolras means it for them both. He puts Grantaire onto his back, where Grantaire beams up at him; then Enjolras bends low to take Grantaire's cock, most of it at least, between his lips. He takes more and more, until Grantaire is at last fit in, stretching the hot wet heat of Enjolras' throat. He takes the little jerk of Grantaire's hips, until they find their pace; and Grantaire's hands are shaking but they work free the long plait of Enjolras' yellow hair, letting it spill free.

Grantaire gathers fistfolds of Enjolras' hair with reverence, speaking of fields and cloth of gold, and of colors like the streak of Phaeton crashing the sun's chariot, and amber fished by mermaids from the Baltic Sea, and honeycomb stolen from the monarch of honeybees. Through it Enjolras moves on him, swallows him down, can never, ever have enough of Grantaire like this. They have spent lazy days doing little else. If they had the time they once did, Enjolras would take him to the quick and past and taste him, but they do not have the time. The sun is nearly risen.

Enjolras drags off with a sound of regret that could be from either throat. Grantaire, quizzical and slack-jawed, relents his hair, and Enjolras leans after the round glass bottle left set by the bedside. He pours a measure into his palm, warms the oil, then reaches to slick the proud length of Grantaire's cock.

Grantaire's gaze tracks him. “Position me as you will, o mine sculptor. You will find I am not made of marble, like some amongst us, but of pliable clay--”

“I already have,” says Enjolras. He swings a leg across to straddle Grantaire's hips. “In fact while you were gone I sketched my statue precisely so in the dark. I tried to sleep, while I wanted to have you thus, and there was nothing for it until I could have you. I took the liberty of hastening the preparation.”

Now Grantaire's eyes are quite wide. He brings his hands up to settle at Enjolras' waist, steadying him, needing to be steadied himself, as Enjolras shows Grantaire how he is slick with oil and already open. Enjolras rises on his knees, taking hold of Grantaire's cock and sinking down so that Grantaire comes into him all at once.

Grantaire bites his lip hard enough to threaten blood, biting off the moan he wants to give; the walls are too thin, the neighbors too nosy, but as Enjolras brings them together Grantaire tosses his head, and his throat works, and he says, “Enjolras, you--”

“No, it was for you, as I said. I lay in bed, and thought of having you, and being had, and readied myself for you, that there need be no delay.” Enjolras is suppressing his own groans as he goes up to his knees again, then down, then up. Grantaire moving within him, Grantaire in him so deep, so deep, for all the talk of preparation. Grantaire filling him and keeping him grounded to earth, Grantaire playing his truest role. 

“Well,” Enjolras considers, panting so that he does not gasp, “I suppose it was for me as well.”

They knew each other to be sympathetic from the first day in class more than two years ago: they were the brightest students in the lot, and shook hands with the sense of instant camaraderie that comes from mutual superiority. After class they strolled the winding track of the Seine arm-in-arm, as good friends will do, and by that very evening they were in bed, and have never climbed out of it --

Grantaire's hand twisting in his hair again. The roll of Grantaire's hips up to meet him as Enjolras rises and falls with a rhythm older than the Garden of Eden.

Grantaire murmurs about it as they fuck, Grantaire with his ability to monologue no matter the situation: “Do you know the old Jewish tradition about Lilith, Enjolras? You must listen for it. It is a whispered history. They hold that before there was Eve, God created a wife for Adam named Lilith, and she was made as equal to Adam as anything – her own woman, not fashioned from Adam's rib, as we say Eve was. Adam and Lilith lived in the Garden a while, but they had a problem. Adam wanted Lilith on her back, but she preferred to ride him.” Grantaire pulls a wickedly gleaming grin. His eyes sweep Enjolras, keenly appreciative. “I imagine her long hair streaming over her shoulder as yours does,” he chooses his words carefully, “whilst bucking authority.”

Enjolras laughs as he rides. “And what of Lilith?”

“She would not be subservient, so she left the Garden, or was cast from it, depending who you ask. Thereafter she set to coupling with demons, which I suppose God had also seen fit to create, and lay down in a cave, and became the mother of all monsters.” Grantaire manages to look circumspect beneath the building pleasure, the relentless push and pull of their bodies. “Rather an extreme reaction to an extraordinary position, if you were to ask me. But I like the story. And I, unlike Adam, worship unconditionally. I care not how we are, only that it is you and I, and we two together.” As he speaks he moves to take Enjolras' cock in hand with every sign of reverence, and a muttered prayer when Enjolras tightens up everywhere.

Enjolras shakes his head, is sure to shake out the gold silk of his hair. He leans in against Grantaire, rests his weight against him, puts his lips to Grantaire's neck. Grantaire's mouth is saved for last. He tastes of liquor and smoke, and his tongue is clever and sure. 

Enjolras knows Grantaire's tongue and the things that it is capable of better than his own. Here now Grantaire's tongue, welcoming him, and when they are like this it is as though none of the rest of it ever happened. It is like that, for a while.

Timed well, partners in a dance, they can find release as one, and they like to time it that way. They know just how and where to hold and grip and kiss. One's earlobe is sensitive, the other's belly button is; sometimes they switch. Enjolras will kiss Grantaire through crisis, to quiet the cries they want to make, and Grantaire's fingers will find a way to be buried in his hair and sure to make a mess of it. 

They prefer to go over the edge together, spill into and across and shine their bodies with the mutual evidence of desire. Tonight it is no different, only that when Enjolras, shaking, exhilarating, would have pulled away, Grantaire begs to keep them whole a moment longer.

“Every second in Paradise must be savored now,” says Grantaire, fingers grazing the nape of Enjolras' neck, blue eyes open, “since we are soon to be cast from the Garden.”

“Grantaire--”

“Do you truly believe that if we do not speak of it, it shall not come to pass? That is a child's trick, Enjolras. I know better than any man that a turning-point is coming to the city, for it has been my job to observe and excite it, and I have read my histories, and I know just how popular uprisings end up. You choose death and I choose you. It is really quite simple.”

Enjolras' throat feels tight, and for several breaths he cannot speak. Grantaire at last eases free of him, though he keeps his arms around Enjolras, and guides him to lie close. They watch each other face-to-face, sharing skin. Grantaire can see too much, Grantaire knows him too well, and he Grantaire, but still Enjolras must try. 

He tries: “There is a chance for you. You could go to--”

“There is no chance,” says Grantaire. “I have accepted it, and I wish that you would. It would put my mind to rest. I do not fear death, only a death without you, which would be unacceptable, and quite a waste, considering my recent efforts. Where we go we go together.” He shrugs, as though that place might be to dinner, and looks as resolved as Enjolras has ever seen him. “In this life I am yours, and I suspect in the next I will be, and the one after that. I am not afraid to start again.”

Enjolras closes his eyes, and when he opens them Grantaire is studying him. 

“Did you really think of a place for me when this was through, Enjolras?”

“I had to. I could not bear otherwise.” It feels torn out of Enjolras, but Grantaire deserves to hear it said: the way his imagination has run wild, imagining it. He cannot stop himself. He runs wild. “There is a minor property of my family's in the South, near a quiet town, far from the main road. I like it better than the other places they claim. There are a few acres of growing crops and a bit of forest with tall trees, and at night it is quiet enough to believe you are asleep in the woods. The house is not large, but it is sufficient.”

To speak of it is to see it and Enjolras aches with vision. “It is here that I imagined you might go. You could pass time on your artwork, and the town is only a short walk. Surely you would make friends there, and find employment if you wanted. Further down the road there is a schoolhouse--”

Grantaire's expressive face is changing as Enjolras talks and talks; his face is melting, and for the first time he looks completely undone. Talk of death was easier than plans for life.

Grantaire is saying, “Is it only me that you see there?”

And has Grantaire not earned the right to know the depth of Enjolras' affliction? Is it not Enjolras' turn to tell an old story?

Enjolras tells Grantaire, “I am there as well, in my hidden dreams. Impossible things, Grantaire, like you, and as beautiful. A world turned ideal, and you and I retired to the country. I know the headmaster at the school, and might apprentice myself to him; one day I should have his position, and instruct generations of France's young men to be righteous citizens; and you would teach them ancient arts and otherwise. The estate is small enough to be run by a handful of workers; our friends might come and go for grape-picking season, and all would gather every year when the wine is ready. Our bedroom is in the back of the house, with a door out to the garden, and very thick walls --”

Grantaire's eyes open, close, with each blink more luminous. “It would be a gentler life after so much difficulty,” he says, interrupting as though he cannot bear to hear the intimate details of a room that they will never share. “I see why you have chosen it, and I would have gone with you gladly. A man tires of cities as he ages.” He cants his head, putting his face half in shadow under the dark of his hair. “Do you often think of this country seat?”

“Every day,” says Enjolras, “since the first day.”

Grantaire reaches for his hand. Their fingers catch. “It is far away,” says Grantaire, “but it is a lovely sort of place, and I am happy to have visited it with you. We might get bored, but I think that if we brought enough friends and books, it would never be boring. When I let myself think on futures out of reach, my thoughts were not nearly so well-organized.”

“I would hear them,” says Enjolras. He hears himself sounding hungry.

“Instead of plans, they are flashes, and strong impressions, fancies of mine,” says Grantaire slowly, staring as though from a distance. “The bedroom I see as well, a room that is ours with no sneaking to share it. How it might be to know that I could join you every night, and have it bother no one else that I did. I would have you on my arm for all the world to see, but that is for another world, I think.”

Their arms are linked around each other now; Enjolras tightens his hold on Grantaire. Anger and growing regret burn brightly in his belly. Why should they be afraid to saunter again along the Seine, arm-in-arm, as they did the first day of class? They feared someone seeing their love for what it was: a terribly improbable reason not to be able to stroll with arms around each other, as other doting couples could.

Had they been able to show the truth of the relationship from the start of les Amis de l'ABC, they could have played other parts in this. Maybe Grantaire would not have had to play the cynic. He does not sound cynical now. He sounds vulnerable, and resigned, and softly wistful.

Grantaire's expression draws serious; his eyebrows knit. His pitch is barely above a whisper, and Enjolras has to tilt in to hear it: “Would you hear that in another world, I would have a family? I am fond of children, and this planet has enough of them without our meddling. With your contribution I can see it more plainly now. We could let it be known that troubled ladies and unhappy orphans might find respite with us, at your house in the country, and in time there would be children. Sometimes I see a little girl, upright and fair, like you, and a small stubborn boy more like me, with chalk in his hand.” Grantaire clears his throat as his voice begins to betray him. “A third child, sex undetermined as of yet, who might be better off a Combeferre or a Courfeyrac, a citizen of nature--”

Enjolras does not realize that he is weeping until Grantaire moves to smooth his thumb across the wet in wonder. Grantaire tries to wipe the tears away, and at length succeeds. It is such a new thing between them that they are frozen at first.

Then Grantaire says, “Enjolras, I did not mean to--”

Enjolras takes Grantaire's hand between both of his own. “Say that you mean it all.”

Grantaire nods, with his blue eyes enormous and his black hair a crushed halo, his red mouth an uneven line. No one would call Grantaire beautiful, not with his too-strong features and thin, wry, spectacular lips – none save Enjolras, who makes a point of it --

“I see all of it before me like a book, or a painting,” answers Grantaire. “It is enough to get a glimpse. Every man and woman imagines their ideal life as a matter of course, and that is mine with you. It is far more rare to know that another would share the same self-delusions.”

Enjolras can do little but hold him, and say: “I am sorry it is only a dream.” He tightens his hold. “Grantaire, I am so sorry--”

“Hush. Enough. I would not have you speak as though we did not go into this with our eyes open. I have always known who you are, and what you would do, and what we would do together. As I said, my fear is not of death but that you will try to keep me from it. Yours will be a heroic swoon, set down for the ages, wherever you fall; men will speak your name for centuries, and say how well you stood. I ask for nothing but to stand beside you. I have earned that, I think.” Grantaire leans in to press a kiss against Enjolras' slack jaw, his frowning mouth. “Only indicate through some sign to me when the fight is finished, and I will follow.”

Enjolras thinks about this. He feels hollow and too full of remorse. The looming outcome of the undertaking is cast over them like a mourning cloak. Yet with Grantaire so resolved, what can he do? 

Once he had exchanged words with Combeferre: “If we are in a situation where the outcome is desperate, I would have it be an order that you secure Grantaire and find a way to safety.” And Combeferre looked at Enjolras in his considerate way, and shook his head, and did not ask why Enjolras would seek to preserve the seeming thorn in his side, and said, “You know quite well that neither of us will go,” and that was that.

After all that they have been, how can Enjolras deny Grantaire his bid to man the barricade? Grantaire is right, as he ever is, he has more than earned his place; and if they die together in the end none could know that it meant anything more than martyrdom. They might hold hands, and turn as one into the attack, and thus never have to understand what it is like to have to live without the other.

Instead of answering, Enjolras kisses Grantaire. Enjolras opens his mouth, the better to allow for the reentry of Grantaire's smart tongue, and as they kiss he feels himself starting to smile. The absurdity of life and death is laid out more plainly than Grantaire's maps of Paris. That they, striving for a better, more just mode of living, must whisper of their eminent execution, is one of the curiouser cases out of history.

“Is it not strange,” Grantaire once said, “that every land on the globe has men and women who tried to change society for the better, and also stories of how they suffered? Why else should you want to be a martyr, Enjolras, save that martyrs are remembered, when so many are not? Prometheus the Titan stole fire and brought it to the early humans that he loved; for the gracious act he was chained to a rock where a great bird picks at his intestines every day, and every night his body regresses and goes back to its previous state: that is the fate of revolutionaries. Yet too few of us recall Prometheus' sacrifice. Do you ever think he wishes he had chosen another path, now that he has been upon the rock in torment so long, with the bird?”

It is all of it absurd: Prometheus' punishment for humane disobedience, the punishment Enjolras and Grantaire court; for no man can try and alter the status quo without inciting the rage of those who maintain it. Yet Grantaire too easily glosses the impact of rebellion, Enjolras knows. Those who defy the wrath of gods and men have their names written down in books and whispered when other humans need hope and strength. The fires that les Amis spark will burn far after their own smaller lives. A few brave handfuls of men and women, cleverly deployed, can send a message of resonant defiance.

Enjolras is still smiling gravely while they kiss. So when they stop, he tells Grantaire, “I will smile when it is over,” and Grantaire nods. 

To have it settled feels barely as tolerable as to have it unsaid. Grantaire must feel the same way, for he draws up the blanket over their bodies for cover, and puts his head to Enjolras’ shoulder, burrowing closer. “Tell me again about the bedroom.”

Enjolras swallows. “Are you certain --”

“The walls, I think you said, are very thick?”

“The house has been standing several centuries; it is solidly built, and simply. Whitewashed walls and wooden floors, a roof of red tile. The bedroom opens into the garden, which is neatly kept by the caretakers there. There are many flowers and many bees. Upstairs, three guest-rooms standing ready to be used. Downstairs, a big warm kitchen after the rural style. Outside, a smaller farmhouse for the grounds, and a modest farm; I mentioned the vineyard. Only enough vines to make the house wine, but enough.”

“Three empty rooms?”

“Yes. Three.”

“The house wine?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me more about the school down the road,” says Grantaire, his hands in Enjolras’ hair, trailing from root to tip; his eyes are blue like the sky without clouds, and his jaw is stubborn, set.

So Enjolras tells him -- tells him how it might have been, in an impossible future. Tells Grantaire how they might have lived and loved, all that he has dreamed and day-dreamed, recklessly plotted and planned inside his head. 

Because Grantaire is right: no man or woman is immune to imagining their perfect life; in fact, Enjolras is relying on it. His comrades in philosophy will follow him to arms because they believe in a better world they have pictured. Enjolras will lead the charge because he can see that world in reach and knows the cost of entry. Grantaire also knows. _You choose death and I choose you._

They burn through candles talking, until the sun is up and burning too. It could be any other day, only they know that it is not, it is the edge, and every day after will be a lucky and unlucky sign. 

“Do you know,” Enjolras is saying to Grantaire, Grantaire bathed in sunlight beside him, “before we properly met I thought we would not get along? Your answers were correct, your instincts keen, but I disliked your casual delivery; I thought you were there to make trouble. I knew enough bored young aristocrats by then.”

Grantaire chooses laughter rather than taking offence. “If I tell you that I went to class that day with the express intention to _play_ a bored young aristocrat, will you forgive me for the first impression?

Enjolras’ turn to laugh and shake his head. “What I meant to say was this: we met after class, and went along the river, and to dinner, you remember? -- Yes. And after dinner, when I asked you to see me home, and then come inside--”

“I think of that day often,” says Grantaire, deceptively mild. “It is one of my favorite days.”

Enjolras is briefly sidetracked. “Your favorite overall?”

“The Louvre,” says Grantaire, raising his eyebrows, his tongue laving the L.

Enjolras blushes. _Blushes_. There’s a deepening red on his cheeks, and he feels himself heating. “That was a good day, yes.”

“I should have had you by the statue of Euryalus,” muses Grantaire, “alas for the museum guards.”

“I should think the stairwell sufficed,” says Enjolras, remembering the way Grantaire had caught him up and held him up in the narrow dark staircase they found, how they fucked helping each other stifle sounds, roused to the tipping point and past by the threat of discovery. The Louvre had been Grantaire’s kingdom; therein Enjolras played his follower, and it proved an excellent sort of switch. 

Grantaire took him on the grand tour, diverting for his favorite highlights, and then took Enjolras in the stairs off a wing of Greek and Roman statuary. The smell of stone, of their mingled sweat, the press of their bodies and mouths in the daring dark. The risk and reward of them. That is the Louvre. Grantaire’s favorite day. 

Enjolras exhales. “What I wanted to recount before certain distractions was the first night we passed. Or maybe it is the morning. We lay still awake, and talking, as we talk even now. We agreed that while it was improbable, it was possible that we encountered our ideals in one another, and that we should not resist the sympathy but embrace it. “ He slants an eyebrow at Grantaire. “You spoke of epic and divine lovers, and said that we would rival them.”

“Prove me incorrect,” says Grantaire.

Enjolras inclines his head. He does not argue. He says, “And I said--”

“That it was entirely unlikely that we should be in love, having just met, even if it felt as though we were in love,” recounts Grantaire, with perfect memory. He sets his hand to the bend of Enjolras’ thigh. “You argued about statistical improbabilities and inflated fairytales and ancien régime romantic tropes, and declared that while you had never been one for undue sentiment, there was no denying that we were compatible. I was ready to say I loved you, before you even took my arm to walk along the river; I tried, if you recall; but you asked me not to say so that day.”

“That is why I have recalled it,” says Enjolras. “I wanted to tell you that you were right. I debated with you then, and refused to see, but I see it clearly now. I loved you from the moment you stood up to answer in class, and when I saw what you were truly made of, I loved you the more.”

“If this is a ploy to woo me, it arrives late--”

“Many days since I have told you that I loved you, Grantaire. In this I know we are assured. But I knew it long before I ever told you. I knew it from the first. And since then, I have let myself see us in a house in the country, in the space between sleeping and dreaming.”

Grantaire bites his lip. He says, “I can see it too. I could paint it all--”

“You would paint every day, and never need to draw another scene of a street for strategy.” Enjolras drops his gaze. “The work that you have done for us is extraordinary.” The briefest hesitation. “I hate it.”

“Necessary evils for the greater good,” shrugs Grantaire. 

“You should not do so much alone. If we told the others of the scheme--”

“Then it would not be a scheme. They are good men but that is far too many loose lips to account for. No, our secrets must be kept until the crisis, and then it will not matter. We have come too far to jeopardize this, Enjolras.” There is a pause, and then a slow, suggestive smile curves Grantaire’s lips. He steers them elsewhere. “But let speak no more of death or destiny a while. We have sacrificed enough candles, and all my questions are answered.”

“Tell me another story,” says Enjolras, in agreement.

“Hmm,” hums Grantaire, looking happy, and considering, “If we stay with the Biblical theme, the Song of Songs is wholly appropriate. Every day as a youth I used to bless its author for slipping such fine erotic art into that brick of a book.” 

He moves to settle over Enjolras, and Enjolras cradles him between his thighs. Grantaire recites, half-singing: “‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love _is_ better than wine.’” He ducks down to put word to deed, kissing Enjolras deeply, binding them up. 

Grantaire murmurs distant poetry against his neck, scratches words into his skin. “‘Because of the savor of thy good ointments,’” and Grantaire reaches for the oil with a serious face and laughing eyes, “‘thy name _is as_ ointment poured forth,’” his hand is slick, his fingers seek Enjolras, “‘therefore do the virgins love thee.’”

Enjolras wants to laugh but all he can do is groan as Grantaire’s fingers slip back inside to prime him. Grantaire knows just what he likes best like this, Grantaire has had him hundreds of times and still acts as though each time is treasured and new. Every day he looks at Enjolras with wide-eyed wonder, and that has never changed, even now, with their world so altered. 

“‘Draw me,’” says Grantaire, still quoting, “‘we will run after thee,’” and he moves to hook Enjolras’ ankles over his shoulders. Fully aroused again -- a particular skill of Grantaire’s -- he waits for Enjolras’ breathless nod, then presses slowly in. 

Enjolras groans again, because it feels better than anything else he knows, and because Grantaire has timed the poem on purpose -- 

“‘The King hath brought me into his chambers,’” so that Grantaire twists his tricky hips and drives deep, “‘we will be glad and rejoice in thee,” and he does, rejoicing again and again. 

There is sweat on Grantaire’s brow that turns his hair the color obsidian and he has one hand on Enjolras’ hipbone, the other on Enjolras’ cock. “‘We will remember thy love more than wine.’” Grantaire’s thrusts are achingly thorough, electrifying. “‘The upright love thee.’”

“Ah, Grantaire, how I love _you_ \--”

“A symphony of words and masterwork of syllables. I could hear it sung forever. Now come kiss me, and I shall show you what I think of you in return.”

Enjolras moves to kiss Grantaire, pushing up on his elbows. He grabs for fistfuls of Grantaire's ink-black hair and holds. The second round is even more intense, faster and deeper, sweat painting their skin, the bed frame creaking dangerously from the strain. They twist and writhe and bite moans into shoulders to stay silent. Their fingers twine. Their lips graze. They watch each other through it. When they are like this there is nothing else. The world outside fades at the edges. They are young and alive and in love, the most sustaining state of all, and the most isolated.

If they do not leave bed until long past most men have risen and washed and dressed, only they know. They have the weight of world-changing on their shoulders, but they are lying down. They remain tangled up together, whispering plans for their ideal paradise. Only they know if they speak on the coming tide of social protest or of a small house in the south of France.

They reside in the Garden a few days more. Then they rebel, and meet monsters. 

Their story is an old one; one day Grantaire will tell it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearby Grantaire is saying, “Do you permit it?” and Enjolras blinks at him in stunned amazement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my dear [barricadeur](http://archiveofourown.com/users/barricadeur) for telling me history that suggested the end. Thanks to [goshemily](http://archiveofourown.com/users/goshemily) for pre-reading first, and to A. for inspiring a close.

Sweat, sweat and smoke and blood and

death, death is everywhere all around and

bodies, bodies that should be smiling lying shot,

dead, dead.

Enjolras runs, skids on stones slick with red, crouches in corners smoldered black. 

Explosions: cannon and muskets jar him, send him to his knees in the muck. Next to him someone falls and does not get up. 

Someone he knows? If he looks at the face he will be lost. He does not look.

He goes inside the Cafe Musain, a den of hell disgorged. 

Quieted men are bent back in chairs, or sprayed over tables. More are heaped by stairs they will not climb. Here and there, a soldier killed, his colors running to maroon. Outside there is the sound of guns and inside the few living men are running. 

Someone tries to catch Enjolras’ sleeve and draw him to the exit but he shakes off the hand. Grantaire is supposed to take shelter behind the bar in case of disaster, and this is disaster, this is war, and Grantaire behind the bar is all Enjolras can let himself see as he steps over sprawled limbs, some twitching. 

It is nothing but horror now, and he does not know why he remains alive, but the instinct of preservation keeps him moving. And he made a promise --

Before he can make it to the bar, joy: 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Joly, beautiful and whole with only a little scarlet on them. They embrace. They go upstairs to regroup, breaking down the bannister to make them hard to follow, and hold each other in conference --

\-- shots from hell below piercing heaven --

\-- down, down, all of them falling, puppets with strings sliced. 

Why is Enjolras standing when his friends are lying down? 

He stumbles away and up more stairs with an idea of reaching a roof and seeing the sky. If he looks back he will be pulled into the Underworld. At the top of the stairs there is another room for drinking and rooms set aside for travellers. 

There is the window overlooking the street, now a stormy sea. He could climb out, but should he? Where else would he go when all that he loves and lives for are below?

Heavy boots on the stair. So he will not have to decide. There is a certain pleasure in the finality of it. Enjolras turns to face the soldiers as they file in, their faces as weary with disgust at the endeavor. Better to have it over, everyone seems to agree. 

The sound of running feet on the ruined staircase, and Grantaire emerges wide-eyed but determined. 

He declares himself for Enjolras’ Republic and swears himself to be one of the rebels, and Enjolras’ heart misses its beat. Gruff hands shove Grantaire forward. Grantaire’s eyes are so big. Grantaire is close now. His black hair is adrift, his jaw trembles.They are so close to it, it has come at last. 

Nothing else to plan, nowhere else to go, finally, the end, and if Enjolras smiles at Grantaire --

Grantaire is reaching for his hand. Grantaire’s other hand raises, as though it can still the guns --

\-- the guns are still --

\-- as though somehow waiting for Grantaire’s command --

\-- some act of Grantaire’s --

Nearby Grantaire is saying, “Do you permit it?” and Enjolras blinks at him in stunned amazement. 

All around them men stand with guns pointed and silent. They do not fire. They, too, watch Grantaire. And Enjolras does not understand until he slowly understands that Grantaire is not asking to die with him, but to let them live. 

It should not be possible, but the men here to shoot them are instead waiting on Grantaire’s mark. Grantaire awaits Enjolras.

Enjolras wonders if he has gone mad. Maybe he is dead already: that would make more sense than Grantaire holding sway over a roomful of guardsmen. Perhaps Grantaire is mad. But the guns are quiet, and Grantaire has asked a question.

To live: 

To live in a world burned to the husk, with all its brightest lights gone out. To live reminded every moment of how they failed to rally the people to their side, and so only lost their own. A futile effort, history will call it, a naive failure. 

To live in a time that will scrub the streets of deaths like theirs and go back back to pushing carts where the barricades stood and the students fell. 

To live: to not watch Grantaire die. To not make Grantaire watch Enjolras’ death.

To live with Grantaire in an impossible future.

Enjolras grips Grantaire’s hand, warm and alive in his own. He nods, feels himself nod, and Grantaire shudders out a breath, and drops his raised palm.

The Army Officer takes that as a signal, shifts his gun, points it down, and his men move to follow. “Better for all of us,” the Officer says with a shrug of squared-off shoulders. His towering hat indicates Enjolras. “You look like paperwork worth avoiding. Grantaire,” and now the feathered hat is dipped, “as always, a pleasure.”

“You did not think so the last time we diced,” says Grantaire archly, as though the bristle of guns were never there, as though the cafe is not full of their dead. 

He has not let go of Enjolras’ hand, and can surely feel how Enjolras is shaking with reaction. Grantaire goes on easily: “But I trust that we are settled now. As for these other fine sons of France, only bring my name with you to a certain Hotel on the Rue Coq d’Or, and you will be treated as princes are.” 

Now the soldiers move quickly to clear the room; the lead Officer leaves last, with a show of plumage and without a backward glance. They are as drained and defeated by what they have seen and done as Enjolras. 

Why kill more schoolboys, when dinner and a warm body might be had instead? Who chooses death?

Grantaire is pulling them away from the window, through the doorjamb, down the hall. Enjolras is still shaking, moving only through force of habit and muscle memory. Each step feels stolen. He does not know where to put his feet. The world has crumbled too many times today. He tries to work his mouth around it all and fails, his eyes watering.

Grantaire opens a door into one of the Musain’s more spacious guest-rooms, the one with a broad wooden bed in the corner instead of a mattress on the floor. He crowds them inside, talking along the way: “You think I have struck at devil’s bargains, but I have not,” he says. “No more than any other than I have made made these months, at least.” He, too, is trembling, but moves briskly, crossing the room with Enjolras tethered to him. 

At the bed Grantaire wrenches up the lumpy mattress, and shows that the boards have been broken to allow access to the space beneath. The bed sits on a hollow box of wood, and its inside is a dark secret place.

“Enjolras, please--”

“Conspiring with the soldiers of Empire! _Gambling_ with the enemy. Drinking with them, too. What did you tell them, Grantaire, when you laughed and drank with the murderers of our friends?”

Grantaire already looks to have taken several blows; this lands like another, and he colors, but sounds unrepentant. “You knew I sought acquaintance with every sort of person in this endeavor. What is more suspicious than to shy away from the company of a soldier? And if I Iet soldiers think me friendly, and friendly with the finest entertainments of Paris, why not? At least that much was true. To have their trust meant some hope -- “ he heaves the mattress for emphasis, “some hope of saving you.”

Enjolras explodes. “This was _never_ the plan--”

“This was _a_ plan,” says Grantaire, still maddeningly calm. “There were many plans, if your plan did not work. Contingencies, if you will. I see that you will not? There are numerous ways that I hoped to see your conflict resolve; this is the worst of worst-case scenarios. And that is why I did it, Enjolras. That is why I wanted us to live instead of giving in death, another plan. All the others are gone; the police hunt the last across the rooftops of Paris. It is over. They are mopping up. Your death was not meant for a lonely room. The Musain has enough bodies for now. Get in.”

“The _quality_ of my death was not a determining factor for you to decide,” Enjolras snaps, losing ground. “ _You_ made me promise -- promise that I would let you know, so that we could--”

“Die together? Yes, terribly romantic and setting a terrible example for posterity, I might add. It is true that I would have died with you, had I seen no other way to prevent your death; but I have spent the year learning how to prevent your death. Did I not speak frankly enough of my mission of preservation? I wanted to know when it was over for you, so that I would know when to act, and that you would not do something rash.”

”But you said -- you _lied_ \--”

“All of this year has been a lie,” says Grantaire, blank-faced. “Lies are what I tell to every man I meet. What is one more lie?” He wrestles the mattress sideways, clenching his teeth under the burden. “What is one more man.” 

“Grantaire--”

“I will argue this with you until we are gray,” says Grantaire, “but right now I need for you to get into the bed, Enjolras.” He indicates the space beyond the jagged boards. “I can hardly count on playing the same trick with the guard again, and other authorities will arrive to survey the Musain. We have to hide here.”

“I cannot--”

“You must,” insists Grantaire. His blue eyes spark, and his sharp mouth softens; his tone is willful and pleading at once. “You are not thinking it all the way through, as usual. They will come for the others now, and stay a while, to -- to settle them. They will search the rooms, and if we are found we will receive summary execution. If that is the coda you wish for your effort, then we shall play it through. But we just had a scene, and you let them put their guns down. You elected against martyrdom. Why have us live to die so soon, so poorly?”

Enjolras and Grantaire have been arguing since the day they met and are still arguing, and Enjolras opens his mouth to argue with Grantaire as per usual and that is when it hits him 

like a hand ripping out his heart, like all of his center has been torn out, like the floor falling out,

they are dead, all of them, extinguished, gone; brilliant laughing men who fought because they were kind and smart and good, dead now beneath the floorboards. All of his friends, can it really be all? Surely Grantaire exaggerates. Enjolras had not looked back --

“All?” is what Enjolras says at last, and Grantaire, who has watched the change come over him, ducks his dark head and nods. 

What, to never again drink sherry with Courfeyrac in his favorite cafe of the moment, grinning and goading each other, strolling home singing? No more dreamy rhymes from Jean Prouvaire, never? Where is Feuilly’s fine, impassioned rhetoric, to prove what is right? His bright, beaming friends --

“Enjolras.” Grantaire’s jaw is set. Grantaire knows the same grief, but is more stubborn than it. “You have to listen to me. We will mourn them better if we are alive to do so. Combeferre said--” only here he stumbles, “--he said that you would not want to save yourself, that if it came to something like this I would have to persuade you. He bid you remember a night with a newspaper--”

_\-- that Combeferre had brought to Enjolras’ rooms, to show news breaking in their favor, and they poured over it together, and should have spoken of strategy, only Combeferre looked around at the signs of Grantaire’s co-habitation without blinking, and smiled an alert smile, and said that was enough club business for the night._

_Then Combeferre said to Enjolras, “You know that you may tell me anything in perfect safety. This strange play-act, Enjolras -- I will not ask what it is for; I can guess. I have seen Grantaire busy in many quarters of Paris. He spies for you. I worked that out first, then reasoned why he would. You are in love.” Enjolras did not deny it, did not speak, heard Combeferre say: “It explains much that was a mystery to me, namely your public behavior concerning Grantaire: you are cruel and cold and make a fool of him, such as I have never seen you treat another creature before or since. Of course it was for a reason. You would have a reason.”_

_And Enjolras did not deny any of it, nor deny how relieved he was that Combeferre knew and did not renounce him. Combeferre’s understanding undid him; all the hidden hardships and uncertainties of the year emerged from Enjolras’ mouth, and he told Combeferre everything that had happened and more. More, he told Combeferre buried things he had never said: the doubts Enjolras harbored that their cause would succeed, the insecurity of purpose he had never put to words._

_Combeferre, logical and practical, heard him out. Did not lift sandy eyebrows when Enjolras let himself say that on occasion he wondered if they were making the right choices. If it were not a better plan to plan to live, and bring the changes they wanted from the inside-out._

_Go the old-fashioned route, rise up through the ranks of government and civil service, have families and teach their children about goodness and equality, so that they would teach their children._

_Enjolras spoke of the land in the South, and how he had imagined himself there, and through it all Combeferre listened and nodded. He told Combeferre about Grantaire, how they had met and managed one another, how they loved each other deeply -- too much, perhaps, Enjolras mused. Who but love-blind fools would undertake a scheme such as the one he and Grantaire cooked up?_

_“Every man in love believes he is the first,” answered Combeferre, diplomatic._

_When Enjolras could speak no more Combeferre said, “If I think on it for myself, I imagine I would remain in the city; I should like to stay at the university long enough that I trick them into letting me teach there. And I should like to come visit you and Grantaire in your retreat, and breathe in open fields.” He shrugged, and shook his head as though to cast off the idea. “But we have plotted the way forward, and there is little turning back from it. Only swear -- you must swear to me, that if death is not needed, we will not pursue it. Through our actions we send a message to the future. We arise out of compassion, not to hurt or kill. We must stay peaceful, and care for the soldiers who come for us as we would our own friends and comrades. If it is so, surely some of us will survive, to tell others what we did.”_

_Combeferre’s expression that brokered no nonsense. “And if you survive, Enjolras, you must thrive, in the ways you say you wish for all men--”_

_And Enjolras had sworn, imagining the point moot --_

“Please,” Grantaire is saying, and Enjolras blinks and makes his numb limbs work, climbs up onto the bed and down into the hole in the frame. It smells of dust and stale air, and is low enough that he must lie down and roll over to make room for Grantaire. 

It is pitch-dark save for thin slivers of light through the wood, and it gets darker when Grantaire slips in and lowers the mattress down over them. It becomes difficult to breathe quickly, and they elbow-crawl toward what is probably a mouse-hole, but is at least letting light and air in. They lie by it, breathing. With their heads pressed to the ground, the echo of boots thudding downstairs overwhelms. 

“You spoke with Combeferre, of your...contingencies?” Enjolras whispers it.

“Some of them,” Grantaire returns. “He was quite helpful. We were in agreement about you.”

Enjolras closes his eyes. It is so dark in their small hot space that it hardly makes a difference. He is so, so tired. Better to close his eyes than to argue about things that hurt too much to look at. 

Grantaire chooses the opposite approach:

“I had thought of ways to save them all, of course,” says Grantaire, low-voiced. “Saw myself stepping in a thousand ways to play the hero, until we were actually in the thick of it.” His voice rasps. “Everything happened so fast. No time to broker, barter or beg. No way to cajole cannons. Suddenly I was the last of us, I thought, forgotten behind the bar. Then I heard the soldiers shout that they had found the leader, and I knew you were alive, and that I had a chance to keep you alive, and that no man would fault me. Even you did not.”

They can hear the heavy tread on the stairs, soldiers drawing closer. Men in the outer room, moving around, jeering about the sights downstairs, which Enjolras tries to close his ears to. The slam of doors being opened and shut in the rooms along the hall. The slight catch of Grantaire’s breath. The stillness of the Cafe below.

Perhaps it is because the Musain is so quiet that the fresh soldiers only give a summary check. The carnage lies in the lower levels, and the upstairs appears untouched, unaware of the mayhem its foundations hold. 

Had Enjolras made a different decision, these men would now be finding his body, tacked by bullets in a corner, with Grantaire struck down beside him. 

Holding his breath under the bed-frame, Enjolras shivers, and lets himself be glad that he lives. What glory would it have been, to be discovered dead in a corner, gripping Grantaire’s hand? 

Would any person have even noted them? Executed by a firing squad, as though they were common criminals, guilty without trial. Their bodies dragged free from their last embrace, never to touch again. Laid out in a row for rough men in uniform to point at, as though they were no more than hunted animals.

It can be terrible to live, but death is still more terrible. One must meet it in order to know; otherwise it is all just reading and hearsay. This is the one lesson that every person learns eventually and that Enjolras learns today.

Enjolras reaches out in the narrow space, fits his hand to the curve of Grantaire’s hip. Grantaire starts at the touch but turns into it at once, turns in to face him. They are outlined in silver against the black. Grantaire, who had saved him against all odds, at all cost.

They are carefully silent when the room where they are hiding is inspected. The men bang open dressers, drag out drawers, rip curtains, even stab the mattress with bayonet blows to be thorough; but they leave the bed alone, and someone says that it is no use, there is no one left alive. 

To hear the confirmation of it makes Enjolras choke and want to scream, but Grantaire’s hand settles on his in the dark, Grantaire grounding him, and so they lie without sound.

Sometimes the bayonet plunges too close through the wood, and they must not gasp; once a boot kicks the bed-frame and Enjolras is sure that they are lost; but it is better fun to smash plates and cups, and strip the room of anything that can be sold. With this mission completed, the soldiers leave, slamming home the door behind them, rattling the window in its frame.

Underneath the bed Enjolras and Grantaire are rattled. Their pulses stay racing. The spike of adrenaline that comes from surviving an imminent threat makes Enjolras’ blood boil. 

Enjolras hisses, “That was terrifically inept. Men like that naming themselves national guardsmen is part of the problem in the first place. They should be called up and disciplined for--”

“Only you would charge those too bored to find and kill us.” Grantaire sounds cautiously amused, at least, a welcome shift. He flutters a hand, plays it out. “Do we live? My heart is still in my shoes.”

“For all I know, you have told half of Paris not to inspect the frame in this room, promised each a gold ring from a pirate’s shipwreck to arrive hand-delivered on a bed of sea glass, a token of affection often used by the Mer-Queen Amphitrite --”

“So you have been listening, all this time.” Grantaire laughs, a tiny laugh but a thrilled one, hushed behind his fingers. “And if I did?”

“We will argue about it until we are gray,” says Enjolras.

When they steal out into the city in the darkest part of night, an eerie, heavy quiet has settled like a mourning cloak. In many houses and in huddled rooms, people keen for their dead behind locked doors, afraid to implicate themselves in mourning. All who can leave the neighborhood have gone elsewhere, and all the windows are shuttered and barred. 

They make several stops around Paris. Grantaire knows the sprawling streets as though they are mapped onto his skin. He knows, even better than Enjolras, the most recent addresses ascribed to the young men they left behind. Half are trustingly unlocked, and Grantaire’s tricks or Enjolras’ shoulder gets them in at the others. 

It takes the better part of the long night to clear their friends’ lodgings of incriminating material -- their most treasured papers and experiments and letters. They seize journals unread, scandalous books, take down mildly pornographic sketches. They do not talk about about how the authorities will trample through here first before the families can. They save heirlooms for return, box up love notes and calls to arms. They make neat catalogues of complicated lives. They work efficiently, side by side, experts at it soon enough. Their cheeks are wet with tears. They let them run unchecked.

Grantaire procures a rickety old carriage through a monetary exchange Enjolras does not want to begin to imagine. It comes complete with a rickety old driver who thankfully asks no questions. They pile the seats high with the evidence that Les Amis de l’ABC had lived. 

They gain many cushions from Joly and Bossuet, who preferred to stay comfortable. Grantaire tucks what remains of Joly’s medical kit and the volumes of his notes into the carriage, with a muttered oath that both will be put to use. Enjolras sets his jaw against the driver’s disapproval and loads Bossuet’s favorite chair, a garish gold-fringed affair purchased on a good streak. The thought of an army officer carting it off is unfathomable. 

At Courfeyrac’s, they gather up a library. Courfeyrac had all the best books, ancient tomes in fine repair and all the recent titles. At Courfeyrac’s they take Jehan’s books also, those that he owned and those that he wrote. Many slim delicate volumes of poetry and plays in folio are swept up. They put away his best pens, the colorful pots of ink and reams of creamy paper. They seize for themselves a lap-desk Jehan and Courfeyrac had left at the foot of the bed. 

From Bahorel’s they have a multitude of fine frocks. They change in the quiet dark of Bahorel’s rooms, fitting into too-big clothes, shedding their filthy rags. They mark those for burning. The devil-may-care sprawl of Bahorel’s mess suggests his imminent return, and they cling together before they dress, once. They leave with colorful silks and jackets under their arms, in purloined finery. Their fashionable Bahorel would approve the operation. 

Close by, at Feuilly’s, the greatest trove of inflammatory propaganda and dangerous books are to be found. And found. Feuilly has pamphlets stashed under the mattress, behind the pipes, in a secret spot carved out in the wall Grantaire uncovers. There is a manifesto in the wall in Feuilly’s hand naming les Amis de l’ABC as his family, and setting out the nature of their cause in flawless rhetoric. They read it together in silence. They unpin his maps from the walls, and take Feuilly’s tools so that they will not rust.

Combeferre has left his own accommodations stripped and spare. Anything of value or strategic use is gone, traded for the effort. Anything incendiary has been destroyed. On his empty desk, missing its drawer, he has left a stack of letters to be sent. Next to the letters he has left sprouting pots of plants and many neatly labeled packets that contain seeds. They take every one of his books, and Enjolras slips on his overcoat, letting Combeferre’s warmth settle around his shoulders. 

Enjolras’ few possessions fit into a Spartan trunk. Grantaire takes his good bottles of wine, his good canvases, his sketchbooks for fear of damaging innocent eyes. A red Robespierre waist coat, a memento of a night that had been their coup de grace when they were falsely at odds. Enjolras is the one who retrieves it. In the carriage at last they sit surrounded by a beloved, chaotic mix of objects, holding seedlings so that the soil will not spill.

The house in the countryside is long overdue for repairs and needs many. The aging caretakers are glad to have them there. Every day there is a different project to wake up to, and they fall into bed at night wearing paint or earth or lavender tracked in from the fields. They populate the warm rooms with their friends’ books and tablecloths and paintings and mirrors, looking at them every day.

They hire extra hands from the village, making new friends, but they prefer to be out beside them, clearing and planting and growing and harvesting. They find themselves unlikely farmers and cheerful about the conversion. At night and most mornings and generally in the afternoons they appreciate the thick bedroom walls, their bedroom that overlooks the green garden. Now the seeds from Paris are growing.

In time, Enjolras tends to students down the road, young people ready to study what he once tried to shout. Grantaire makes texts for them to use, draws out stories, and it becomes his preoccupation; he illustrates his favorite myths and creates new ones, crafts picture books for children. 

In time, there are children to read the books, to grow up loving the paintings and tablecloths and smiling into the mirrors. The golden chair loses its fringe to small hands.

The house fills up. It is never too quiet. Love is disruptive.

They are in love. They live.


End file.
